Endless loop, pieces, pulling triggers.

The above song has been playing for days, in repeat mode.
It has set off a trigger in me and it isn't pleasant.
Although I really do like the music,
it's like a dirge song to me, my undertone.
It's not like I could stop playing it anyway,
but that's another thing altogether, sort of.
And yeah, they'll probaby take it down someday. Oh well.
Yet, to this trigger I must and I do go everyday in many ways.
I hope, now, some are good. I wonder. I wander. I go and I never know.

I didn't say this for over thirty five years and could have sworn I had.
It get's a little easier to say, but very hard to write.
That's just because my writing sucks buttermilk through a straw.
What the fuck, here goes nuthin'.
But remember, there is no V-chip installed here. It is not pretty.

This was the catylist.
The motion had been set long before.


I had no sense of boundary. What I saw, I was.
The Army was me and I didn't like it.
It was wrong, my Country was wrong, therefore so was I.
For even being there was unforgiveable sin to me.
Bad war and they always are.
And I sure as fuck didn't like you.
The draft felt like that. It and I were cold.

The body's were brought in, in pieces.
Like a surgeon had separated the limbs apart.
So grey, so cold. Them and I.
Which part goes to whom.
Don't put them in the body bags.
I could fix it and knew I couldn't.
The very sand had sucked the blood out of them.
Who are they and their family's.
So far away. Someone cared, I cared.
Why? No one else did or we wouldn't be, there.

I could not move from sight and I was calm.
I can't remember if I was looking from above and behind me at the sight.
Maybe it was a feeling, maybe I felt nothing, I can't remember.

Pilots, I was anti aircraft.
I didn't shoot them down and yet felt I had been a part of it.
Nose first into something hard. Strapped in,
their limbs were torn off by the impact. Heads too, torso's intact.
The desert burned for days, the smoke and gloom fueled me.
My fitful dreams were filled with missiles arcing up.
Russian Bear Bombers, four twin propellered engines.
Maybe it was eight, maybe it was sixteen, it didn't matter.

I can still see the sight of those nightmares.
It got worse and it went on for months.
I don't want more details then the little I have said.
They don't really need to be said.
But I promised myself some posts ago I would write this.
It isn't that bad anymore. It's still not nice.

My fall out time and this is not all my story,
others have a different versions. Too many others.
It is never the gun, it is the attitude,
and sometimes it really isn't your fault.
The Army has nothing to do with it,
although in my case, it didn't help.
I didn't belong there to begin with.
I suppose they do try to help now,
but because it was so long ago, well,
you learn to live with it. You hope.
Some don't and they still die.

Sweet oblivion is seductive. You start to think it will make everything whole again and it will be all ok. Pieces, yes it really is about pieces. Sometimes you know a name, sometimes you don't. Sometimes you try to lay the blame at others door steps, but they're not home, because you never come home. A part of you dies and it is seductive. Pieces, you go back at the oddest of times and the surreal seductive calm horror fixates you and you look and you see, you looking at pieces. Rooted. An out of body experience. It never is the leaving of the body that's hard, it's the very rude snap back. Time means nothing, even in the now. You just stare. It's still out there.

I cry, I can't cry, I rage, I want to die, I want others to die, I want to live, I want to love, I want too. That horrible word I. I becomes they and you want they to know about it and you don't want they to be anywhere near you and you hide because you don't want they to feel it. You go through masks like blood and water. Always the act, the stage, till it breaks. Till you break, again.

You feel contagious and they call you contagious and they sweep you under the rug, like a vermin. It hasn't changed, throw some confetti or rotten fruit in the air. Welcome home, we'll bring them back. I see them come home and in a heart beat, a heart beat, that's what it is called. In a fucking heart beat, it becomes pieces. Wasted, we get wasted, they get wasted and we came home to find out we are, what we are, part dead. Emotionless and we fill it with things trying to plug up the hole so we can feel something again. They still die around me and yet, I live and feel I don't deserve it. In a heart beat they are thinking about something else and not those that still would like to come home. Whatever and where ever that is. You don't know anymore. It might look the same, but it doesn't smell the same.

Twice I've sat in a different country wondering if I should go back, once before and once after. I still don't know about that, but there is no place to run anymore. Yes there is, sweet oblivion.

I think it has a name and many have called it different names. As strange as this sounds I have to call it birth. Happy fucking birthday to me and I actually heard it as I saw different symbol pieces alive in that fucking nightmare of birth. They were alive and I heard them and one said, happy birthday. They would have locked me up if I had said what I saw and heard. That nightmare was dead on target. Every symbol was the real truth of what had happened. How does the frail human brain do that. Survival. You dream awake, you extend your insides out. So hard to read when in that now. It's magic.

I don't sleep at night, I don't know when I sleep sometimes. I don't look in the mirror anymore. I don't want to see those dark circles under my eyes, still, thirty five some years and yet I go on. I know that look in my eyes. It can feel so seductive, you want to fill that hole in you. You want someone to do it for you and you know they can't. I could have sworn I told somebodies and never did. I wasn't worthy of saying it, because I wasn't in real combat. They don't believe me? Why? Fuck them, I do know better now. Like hell I wasn't, the results can be exactly the same.

Happy birthday, start again. You have the catalyst, now make it work for you, for them, for I. You have to survive and sometimes you grow tired and yet, you, me, they, it, I, know why.

Pieces, it is about pieces. Sometimes it's intense, other days not so much and I know why. I see it on our very own streets and towns. I see the roots of it everywhere. I see the violences, I see the rapes, child abuse. The list of reasons seem endless and because each of it is different in it's own way and it's still the same. Sometimes I think it's the human condition, yet I keep thinking we'll finally smarten up someday. Kill, kill, rip their hearts out. Isn't enough? It's so local. It's so social. I see, I see, I see, I can see. It's a viscous fucking cycle that has to be broken and mended. To the god damned battle grounds, again and again. It drives me. It's insane and I know why.